


Goodbye, John

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Different take on Season 3 Episode 1, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Mary is still in the picture, Post-Reichenbach, Well very different but I'm borrowing some elements of S3E1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Sherlock comes back from being dead. John doesn't know how to deal with him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 44
Kudos: 120





	Goodbye, John

**Author's Note:**

> Another story to indulge my newly recovered Johnlock shipping feelings! Boy this is fun. In this story, there're some angsty moments and a bit of violence, but I'm also a bit surprised about how soppy this story turned out to be. I tried to make it a little bit dark but it fought me very well.
> 
> [my tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)

_“Goodbye, John - - - Goodbye, John - - - Goodbye –“  
  
_He wakes up. It’s still dark, probably too early to get out of the bed. He should sleep a bit more. A few more hours. Maybe he doesn’t go back to the same dream anymore.  
  
He rolls onto his side, reaches for Mary in the dark and falls from the sofa.  
  
“John?”  
  
_Bloody fucking hell._ “Sorry.”  
  
“John?” Sherlock asks, sounding so much more alive than the Sherlock in his head. He should be happy. And he _is._ He _is_ happy. It’s just… it’s like his brain is broken or something. He climbs back onto the sofa, because that’s where he’s sleeping tonight. On the sofa in 221B Baker Street.  
  
He takes a deep breath and looks up as Sherlock stops in the doorway.  
  
“John? Are you alright?”  
  
He nods. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“I thought you –“  
  
“I fell from the sofa.” Oh, god, he fell from the sofa. Like a child.  
  
He looks away. Sherlock takes a few steps towards him. Sherlock is still too thin, just like two years ago, only now he doesn’t appear invincible anymore, and therefore it’s not charming. It’s a little terrifying, really. And John shouldn’t be worried about Sherlock not eating enough, he shouldn’t. Yesterday morning, he thought Sherlock was dead. Not eating enough doesn’t even begin to compare. John should be relieved and _happy_.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in your own bed?” Sherlock asks slowly, as if John’s a wounded animal that might attack if you get too close. That’s surprising. Two years ago, Sherlock would’ve just ignored this kind of complications. _Feelings_. “It’s still there.”  
  
“I know it’s still there,” John says, which is the wrong fucking thing to say. He clears his throat and tries again. “It’s not my bed anymore. I don’t live here.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He should. Then John could answer with something sharp. It’s been _two fucking years_ , Sherlock was away for _two years_ , and yes John knows it was essential, he knows Sherlock didn’t _want_ it, he knows Sherlock did it to protect… to protect _him_ , mostly, the goddamn bastard. But that doesn’t change the fact that Sherlock can’t just walk back into John’s life after being _dead_ for two years and expect that everything is still the same. It’s not. John’s moved on. John’s living somewhere else now, with someone else, who’s not Sherlock, who’s nothing _like_ Sherlock, and he doesn’t want Sherlock to… to… mess everything up.  
  
God, he’s missed Sherlock so much. He can’t breathe. He thought it was the worst fucking thing imaginable that he had to live on without Sherlock. But this is bad, too. Sherlock is _right there_ and John’s broken.  
  
“I just stayed for the night,” he says, to himself probably, because this is obvious and Sherlock hates it when he points out something obvious. “Because it was so late. No reason to get home.”  
  
Sherlock fiddles with the hem of his shirt. John remembers the shirt. It’s the purple shirt. He used to wonder why Sherlock had bought it. Obviously Sherlock’s trying to impress someone, but whom? He always says he doesn’t care about what people think. But he must, because he bought the purple shirt, and he looks very good in the purple shirt, and he must know it, because he’s clever. He’s the cleverest man John has ever met. And the best.  
  
John blinks, looks away, and looks back at Sherlock. Well. If Sherlock has slept at all, he’s done it with his clothes on. Like John. He took the pullover off when he lay down on the sofa a little after midnight. He doesn’t live here, he’s just staying on the sofa for one night. No reason to take his socks off.  
  
“You want to go back to sleep?” Sherlock asks.  
  
John bites his lip. “Not really.”  
  
“…tea?”  
  
He should get back home. That’s what he should do. It would take twenty minutes to get there. Then he could have a few hours of sleep in his own bed, with his girlfriend.  
  
“Maybe you want to get back to Mary,” Sherlock says.  
  
“No,” John says and gets up from the sofa, “no, I don’t want to wake her up. Tea’s fine. Thanks.”  
  
Sherlock makes him tea. He sits at the kitchen table and tries to stop thinking about his dream. It doesn’t matter anyway, not when Sherlock’s not dead anymore. Sherlock’s goodbye doesn’t count now. John is going to stop hearing it in his sleep. And awake.  
  
“Lemon or Earl Grey?” Sherlock asks.  
  
John clears his throat. “You actually have both?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then takes a teabag from the Earl Grey box and sinks it in the water. He doesn’t look away. So, Sherlock can still read him. Good. Great. He’s not going to have to say everything in his mind out loud, then, is he?  
  
“I thought you might come back,” Sherlock says.  
  
  
**  
  
  
They drink tea until the morning comes. When they run out, Sherlock makes more. The morning light grows bolder behind the curtains, until finally Sherlock stands up, walks to the living room and pulls the curtains aside. Then he comes back. His purple shirt is wrinkled and two top buttons are open.  
  
John looks away. He almost says that he’s got work, even though he doesn’t and Sherlock certainly knows that. But he supposes Sherlock might let him get away with it. He would take a cab home. Mary would be awake. She’d want to know how it went. He’d say he’s tired. Mary would understand. He’d take a shower, shave and put on clean clothes, and then he’d sit in the kitchen and drink tea with Mary, maybe read the morning newspaper. Sherlock would stay in Baker Street.  
  
“So,” Sherlock says, sounding all wrong. He should be smug and irritating so John could punch him. Like yesterday, when Sherlock walked into the restaurant where he was just about to propose to Mary. Fucking terrible timing. “You found yourself a…”  
  
“Mary,” John says and sips his tea. Oh, god, he’s had too much tea and he can’t stop. “Yes.”  
  
“A girlfriend.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Sherlock rubs his forehead. It’s almost satisfying, the confused look on Sherlock’s face. It would be, if Sherlock didn’t also look hurt. “For how long…”  
  
“We’ve been together? One and a half years.”  
  
Sherlock is staring at him. He stares right back. He can do this. He can look Sherlock Holmes in the eyes and remember he’s not looking at a ghost. It kind of helps that there’s a new bruise on Sherlock’s face, the one John put there yesterday. He’s not proud of that, god, no, but also Sherlock had it coming. And he had to touch Sherlock. He just had to. Otherwise how the fuck could he have known it was Sherlock and not one of his own personal ghosts again? Because god knows he’s had dreams about Sherlock, but he’s seen Sherlock awake as well.  
  
“Only six months after I…” Sherlock says and clears his throat.  
  
John blinks. “Six months after you died, yeah. Why?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“You thought your death fucked me up so bad I couldn’t meet someone?”  
  
Sherlock only looks at him. He wants to punch Sherlock again. It would be so much easier than just sitting here with the cup of tea in his slightly shaking hand.  
  
“Well, it did,” he says, “it fucked me up. It was… I fucking hope you will never know what it was like. I fucking hope you will never experience anything like that. I watched you _jump_ , Sherlock. I _watched_ you. I saw you die.”  
  
“I didn’t die.”  
  
“I thought you did. I thought that was what I saw. Because you wanted me to.”  
  
Sherlock looks away. “I’m –“  
  
“Sorry,” John says, “yeah, I know.” Sherlock said it a few times yesterday, after John had punched him the second time. Apparently that helped Sherlock to realise it’s actually a bad thing to let your friend think you’re dead for two years.  
  
Sherlock apologised again at night, after they had already got back to Baker Street. John was sitting in his own armchair, squeezing the armrests, biting his teeth to his lower lip so that he wouldn’t say something incredibly stupid or, god help him, cry, and Sherlock stood there in front of him, probably read every fucking emotion in his face and apologised. It sounded genuine. He wanted to forgive Sherlock then and there. He also wanted to grab Sherlock’s shoulders and kick him in the groin, because it was obvious that Sherlock still didn’t have a fucking clue. Sherlock could see from John’s face how bad it had been but couldn’t imagine it. Which was good, because no one should know what it’s like, losing someone like that. No one should know. John wouldn’t wish it on anyone, certainly not Sherlock, and still…  
  
“You’re still angry at me,” Sherlock says now, chewing on his lower lip. He looks like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. But not a nice puzzle. More like… like he’s trying to dismantle a bomb when his other hand is tied to it.  
  
“I’m not angry,” John lies and then takes a deep breath. “Of course I’m angry. You _died._ I’m going to be angry for a long time. But I’m also…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m fucking glad that you aren’t dead anymore.”  
  
“You don’t look glad,” Sherlock says slowly, tilting his head to the side.  
  
“Well, I’m angry. And sad. And tired. And happy.” John takes a deep breath. “I’m a fucking mess, Sherlock. I’m… I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
  
“I could make you tea.”  
  
“You’ve already made me so much tea. You can’t fix this with _tea._ ”  
  
For a second Sherlock looks utterly hopeless. John bites his lip. He’s too tired for this. He barely began to feel almost like himself again, like, maybe three or four months ago. And now everything’s changed again. He can’t deal with something like this. He can’t deal with himself.  
  
“But tea is good,” he says and clears his throat. “Tea is a good start. Thank you. Sherlock…”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Sorry about that.”  
  
Sherlock blinks, then seems to realise what John’s talking about that. He touches the corner of his right eye. John wants to look away but can’t. “Don’t apologise,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Of course I’m going to fucking apologise,” John says. “I hit you. In the face.”  
  
“Well, you always liked my face,” Sherlock says and then blinks slowly as if his great fucking brain is only now catching up with what he said.  
  
“Yeah,” John says, his voice coming out thick and hoarse, but he can’t help it, “yeah, you’re right. It’s nothing personal, you know. Just your… your face.” He swallows. “Yesterday, when I… your nose, is it –“  
  
“You didn’t break it, no,” Sherlock says. “I’m sure you could have. If you had wanted to. You’re an army doctor, after all. So, thanks.”  
  
John rubs his nose. “You’re welcome. Do you want me to…” Oh, god, no, he’s not going to ask. What he’s going to do is that he’s going to go home now.  
  
He thinks about getting up, walking to the door and taking his coat. He thinks about getting through the day, knowing that Sherlock’s in 221B, alive, and he’s not there with Sherlock.  
  
“Do you want me to check it?” he asks, straightening his back. “Your nose? To make sure that I didn’t… do any actual damage?”  
  
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Sherlock says, watching him with an odd look in his eyes. “My face is fine. But now that you asked, I’ve got other injuries.”  
  
John takes a deep breath. “What other injuries?”  
  
“I got beaten up in Serbia.”  
  
“You got beaten up in Serbia?”  
  
“Or tortured a bit, I suppose,” Sherlock says. “I was doing undercover work, you know, to bring down Moriarty’s network.”  
  
“And someone tortured you –“  
  
“Well, only after I got caught.”  
  
John swallows, and then swallows again. “Is it bad?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, “but if you want to check –“  
  
“Yes, of course I… what did they… where do you…”  
  
“I think my ribs took the worst,” Sherlocks says, glancing down at himself.  
  
“Alright,” John says and tugs his sleeves to his elbows. “Take your shirt off.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
He asks about the injuries and Sherlock tells him, doesn’t spare him any details, and he wonders vaguely why he wants to hear this. But he wants to hear this. Sherlock tells about how they didn’t let him sleep and John keeps running his fingers over the bruises on Sherlock’s skin. He’s not actually doing anything. Someone’s already done everything there is to be done, some other doctor who had Sherlock on his table, hurt and probably bleeding. And tired, painfully tired because he had been kept awake for days, and probably he was only half-conscious and couldn’t keep from wincing when the doctor cleaned his wounds and checked that there’s nothing more serious. Just like John would have done, only John would have done it better.  
  
“John?”  
  
He clears his throat. His hands have stopped but he hasn’t pulled them away. Sherlock is sitting on the kitchen table, the purple shirt is folded on the back of the chair, and John told Sherlock to take off his trousers, too. There’s a particularly nasty bruise on the back of Sherlock’s left thigh. Sherlock flinched when John touched it for the first time. Maybe John had cold fingers.  
  
John takes a step back. “Nothing’s broken.”  
  
Sherlock nods, not looking surprised. Of course not. He knew that already. Someone else has patched him up. “Can I –,“ Sherlock begins and glances at the purple shirt on the chair.  
  
John looks at his fingers, then realises what he means. “Yeah. Of course. Put your clothes back on.”  
  
Sherlock takes the shirt. John doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He should go. He should do something. But he just stands there as Sherlock pushes his arm to one sleeve, still sitting on the kitchen table, still looking a little cold and way too thin and bruised all over and impossibly pale, even though that’s probably because John has two lamps pointed at him. The light is cold. Sherlock buttons up the shirt, fastens the top button too, then blinks and opens it. Then he takes his trousers. His boxers look like they’re made of silk. They probably are. John doesn’t know. He didn’t touch the fabric. He probably wouldn’t have been able to tell, anyway. He buys his own boxers from Tesco. He doesn’t know where Sherlock buys his, but it certainly isn’t Tesco.  
  
“Are you going to leave now?” Sherlock asks. It sounds casual, like he’s asking what’s for dinner. But John used to be able to read him a little bit, too.  
  
He looks away from Sherlock. Sherlock gets off the table and closes the zipper of his trousers. “I don’t have work today.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Well, he already knew.  
  
“You already knew.”  
  
“You’ve got a dentist’s appointment tomorrow morning,” Sherlock says. “At nine thirty.”  
  
“Did you nick my calendar or something?”  
  
_I’m Sherlock Holmes_ , says the Sherlock in John’s head. The real Sherlock closes the top button of his shirt, walks to the stove and puts the kettle on.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“Tea?”  
  
John closes his eyes. Just for a second. He can’t possibly drink more tea right now. But he doesn’t have a real reason to stay. “Thanks.”  
  
Sherlock makes him tea. He drinks it. Half an hour later, he sends a text to Mary to tell her he’s going to stay for a little bit. He doesn’t say anything to Sherlock but supposes Sherlock can read it in his thumb or something, because five minutes later, Sherlock has a case. Something to do with an underground terrorist attack. They go to talk to a man who likes trains. Sherlock seems to get along with the man surprisingly well. John stands back and feels like he’s a piece in a familiar puzzle, but the other pieces have shifted. Sherlock doesn’t look quite the same. John doesn’t feel quite the same. He can remember what it was like but it feels like acting now. He’s acting the version of himself that he used to be, the John who hadn’t seen Sherlock fall from the rooftop and die.  
  
Late in the afternoon, Sherlock stops the cab in front of their favourite Chinese restaurant. John waits as Sherlock orders for him without asking. Sherlock still knows what he likes. He feels like maybe he ought to have changed more. But then again, he did. They take the food home… no, to 221B, because John doesn’t live here anymore. Sherlock sits in the armchair, still in his coat, drags the sofa table closer and starts opening the boxes. John sits in his armchair. Sherlock passes him the chopsticks. He takes them, then puts the television on, because it’s too quiet in here, he can hear himself breathing. Sherlock seems surprised at the noise but doesn’t mention it. And then they eat.  
  
After dinner, John goes home. It takes him half an hour to get up from the armchair, then another fifteen minutes to get out of the door. He supposes he’s waiting for a reason to stay. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be able to decide if he wants to look John in the eyes or not, and instead he keeps glancing at John and then pulling his gaze away. He doesn’t ask John to stay. He could, if he wanted to. They were best friends, _are_ best friends. And god knows he’s asked John to do a lot of things in the past, most of which John didn’t want to do at all. He could ask. But he doesn’t, so John leaves, takes a cab home and sits alone in the living room while Mary is out with friends. A book club or something. He looks at his own hands, stretches his fingers, clenches his fists again, ignores the slight tremor. He keeps his phone on the sofa table, but Sherlock doesn’t text him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He goes back to Baker Street the next day. He was thinking about Sherlock at work, he was thinking about Sherlock in the morning at the dentist’s, he was thinking about Sherlock at breakfast and at night in bed. Mary guessed it. Or knew. He supposes it wasn’t a difficult thing to notice. He went to the toilet in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep after, and at some point, Mary asked him when he was going to see Sherlock again. He hadn’t realised she was awake. Maybe that implies he’s a bad boyfriend. He said he doesn’t know. Mary hummed as if she disagreed. Then she kissed him on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes and told his heart to calm the fuck down. There was nothing to panic about.  
  
Now his heart is doing stupid things again. He opens the door with his own key. Sherlock is standing in front of the sofa. He’s wearing a bathrobe, black jeans and a grey t-shirt that might actually be John’s. He only has a sock in one foot.  
  
“Hello,” John says and closes the door behind him.  
  
“Hello,” Sherlock says. He looks ridiculous, his posture stiff as if he’s ready to stand in attention, even though his clothing strongly suggests that he should be lying on the sofa covered in blankets and chocolate. His hair is a mess and there’re dark rings under his eyes. Before, he seemed to be able to go days without sleeping and it still didn’t show on his face.  
  
“What’re you doing?” John asks.  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“Because if you’re busy –“  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
John clears his throat. “I suppose I could’ve texted you, to ask you if it’s okay that I come over –“  
  
“No reason,” Sherlock says. “You can come here. It’s fine. I wasn’t…” He stops, blinks, turns and walks to the kitchen. John wonders if he knows he’s missing a sock or not. “Tea?”  
  
John just had tea at home, twenty minutes ago. “Yeah. Thanks.”  
  
“It’s alright,” Sherlock says and goes to put the kettle on. John follows him to the kitchen. “How was your… dentist? And your…” Sherlock waves at the general direction of the fridge.  
  
“Mary?”  
  
“Yeah.  
  
“Are you telling me that you don’t remember Mary’s name?”  
  
Sherlock freezes for a second, then flinches, glances at John, glances away again. “No. Sorry. Mary Elisabeth Morstan. I remember. I just…”  
  
“Are you high?”  
  
Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again. John walks closer to him and only stops when he’s close enough to touch Sherlock. He does that. He grabs Sherlock’s left arm and pulls until Sherlock turns to face him.  
  
“Because you look like you are,” he says. “If you were someone else, I’d think –“  
  
Sherlock probably tries to laugh but it doesn’t come out quite right.  
  
John digs his fingers harder into Sherlock’s arm. The bathrobe feels expensive. But the t-shirt Sherlock is wearing is definitely John’s. He probably left it here because it’s got tiny holes in it. “You wouldn’t do _drugs_ , Sherlock, that’s ridiculous. That’s…”  
  
Sherlock sighs. It’s a very distinct sigh, and John likes to think he knows Sherlock better than anyone.  
  
“What the actual fuck, Sherlock?” he asks. Apparently he’s shaking Sherlock by the shoulders now, but he can’t bother to stop.  
  
“It’s not _drugs_ ,” Sherlock says, not trying to stop John at all. John can feel Sherlock’s breathing on his face. “It’s just cannabis. I had a joint with Mrs. Hudson. It’s her stuff. For her hip. It’s practically medicine.”  
  
John swallows and shakes Sherlock harder. “It’s not medicine for you, you idiot. And have you slept? Have you eaten? _At all?_ ”  
  
“We had dinner.”  
  
“We had dinner _yesterday_.”  
  
“It counts.”  
  
“It doesn’t fucking _count_ ,” John says and lets go of Sherlock. They’re both panting. He walks to the living room, glances at the door, takes his coat off, walks back to the kitchen, and takes Sherlock’s head in between his hands, tight so Sherlock can’t look away. Sherlock doesn’t try to. “Cannabis?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Why the fuck would you –“  
  
“Bored.”  
  
“You can’t be bored, you’ve got a fucking _case._ Underground terrorist attack in London, remember?”  
  
Sherlock blinks. He certainly remembers but John’s not sure if he cares.  
  
“Alright,” John says and lets go of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock staggers a little, then straightens his back and turns to the stove. The kettle is on. John goes to the living room, takes his phone and orders pizza. It comes half an hour later, and by then they’ve had too much tea again, in silence, only Sherlock’s been tapping his fingertips against the table, looking like he disapproves of John’s every attempt at keeping him alive. It’s an act. It must be. John pays the delivery guy and leaves the pizza boxes on the sofa table, then goes to the kitchen, drags Sherlock up from the arm and brings him to the sofa. Sherlock sits down on the sofa, doesn’t move away when John sits right next to him, and takes the first slice of pizza when John puts it in his hand.  
  
“Do we have napkins?” Sherlock asks.  
  
John gives him a napkin. Fifteen minutes later, he starts to think that maybe Sherlock isn’t that high after all. Maybe he was deliberately trying to appear so for some fucking reason. Now he’s sitting in the sofa next to John, carefully wiping his fingers in the fourth napkin. He looks calm and comfortable. He throws the napkin at the general direction of the kitchen and John gives him another.  
  
“Where’s my sock?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“I don’t know. You were like that when I came.”  
  
“I might’ve had it in the morning,” Sherlock says, looking at his feet.  
  
“You aren’t using, are you?” John asks and clears his throat. “Drugs, I mean.”  
  
Sherlock glances at him. “Of course not.”  
  
He nods, then looks at Sherlock again, and then again. “Are you lying to me?”  
  
Sherlock frowns just a little. “Yes?”  
  
“ _Yes?_ ”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d notice.”  
  
“You aren’t supposed to lie to me anyway!”  
  
Sherlocks frowns again, then swallows. “Anyway, it’s not as if I’m addicted or anything. I just sometimes use something to… enhance my thinking processes.”  
  
“I’d fucking think that your thinking processes would be pretty enhanced as they are!”  
  
“You seem surprisingly upset about this. Do you have something against drugs?”  
  
“Do I have… well, _yes,_ Sherlock, I have something against drugs, I’m a fucking _doctor_. That stuff can kill you –“  
  
“I’m going to die eventually anyway,” Sherlock says.  
  
John gets up from the sofa. It’s either that or hit Sherlock in the face. There’s a short silence and then he hears Sherlock clearing his throat.  
  
“Sorry. I suppose that topic is a bit sensitive.”  
  
“ _A bit sensitive –_ “  
  
“Sorry. Sorry, again. I just meant, using carefully measured amounts of cocaine sometimes doesn’t really threaten my continuing existence more than –“  
  
“Shut up,” John says and turns to look at Sherlock, “shut the fuck up, right now. _Cocaine?_ Really?”  
  
Sherlock looks away. “Well, I’ve also tried heroin, but –“  
  
“ _Heroin?_ Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock, that’s –“  
  
“You’re taking this very personally.”  
  
“Of course I’m taking this personally! I’m your –“ _Shit._ John takes a deep breath, walks back to the sofa and sits down. His hands are shaking. He clenches his fists but it doesn’t help. “My sister’s an alcoholic. My father was one. I’ve seen what addiction does to people. It’s not good, Sherlock, it’s…”  
  
“It’s not like you aren’t, too.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him. He wants to look away but can’t. “You’re _very_ fond of danger, John, it’s not –“  
  
“Yeah,” he cuts in. “Yeah, I know. It’s an addiction. But I can’t fix myself, can I?”  
  
“So, you’re going to fix me.”  
  
“That’s not what I said.”  
  
“You aren’t?”  
  
“No, I…” He bites his lip. He’s pretty sure that Sherlock’s playing with him somehow, but he can’t figure it out, not now when all he’s thinking about is Sherlock trying goddamn _heroin_ and _…_ “Cocaine? Really?”  
  
“I didn’t use at all when you were living here with me,” Sherlock says, his voice perfectly calm and steady. “But the last two years… it wasn’t always… good. Cocaine helped. A bit. Sometimes.”  
  
John swallows. “You haven’t actually told me anything about how it was for you when you were…”  
  
“Dead.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock says slowly. “But you haven’t told me much about how it was for you, either.”  
  
“You wouldn’t want to know.”  
  
“You wouldn’t want to know, either.”  
  
John stares at Sherlock for a few more seconds and then nods. Sherlock nods as well and looks away from him. He takes another slice of pizza. It’s the last one. It’s cold and the grease sticks in his fingers.  
  
“I’m not using cocaine now,” Sherlock says, and John decides not to think about what it tells about him that Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to ask.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Promise?”  
  
“Promise what?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“Do you want me to promise that I’m not lying now?” Sherlock asks. “Or that I’m not going to be using cocaine in the near future?”  
  
“…both, I think.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can do that.”  
  
“Are you lying, then?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“You think you might start using again.”  
  
“It’s difficult to promise that I wouldn’t. If I need it –“  
  
“You don’t need _cocaine,_ ” John says, takes the last greasy napkin from Sherlock’s hand and stands up. He walks to the kitchen, picks up every napkin Sherlock’s thrown on the floor and takes them to the trashcan. “You have me,” he says and washes his hand, but he can’t get the grease off. He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands again with soap that’s probably been here for two years. It still works. He dries his hands and goes back to Sherlock, who’s looking at him as if it’s a surprise. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says to Sherlock.  
  
“Like what?” Sherlock asks, looking at him like that.  
  
“Like you think I’m lying.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re _lying_ ,” Sherlock says slowly. “ _You_ don’t think you’re lying. But you’re…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You aren’t _here._ ”  
  
John opens his mouth and then closes it. Sherlock’s right. John doesn’t live here. And what they used to be before, he and Sherlock, he doesn’t think he can… he can’t just jump straight back, not just because he has Mary, but he’s also _angry_ , he was in the fucking _funeral_ , he buried Sherlock and somehow picked up the pieces of what little was left of him… and also he has Mary.  
  
“You have Mary,” Sherlock says, biting his lower lip.  
  
“You’re wearing my shirt,” John says.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. Mary doesn’t matter, either, or… of course she does, but… you _have_ me.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
“Stop saying that.”  
  
“Why?” Sherlock asks in a sharp voice, then tugs the hem of his t-shirt. _John’s_ t-shirt. “You should’ve thrown this out. It’s got _holes_ in it.”  
  
John stands up from the sofa. He’s going to have to text Mary, to let her know that he’s staying the night, and that he needs her to bring him clean clothes to work tomorrow. He can take a shower there.  
  
“John?”  
  
“I’m staying here,” he says and points at Sherlock. “For tonight. And you’re going to behave. No drugs. No cannabis. No… no bullshit, Sherlock, I mean it. Just… you and me watching television.”  
  
He can see Sherlock swallowing.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“No cannabis,” Sherlock says. “But, John, we’ve got a case. We can’t just watch television.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John doesn’t go to work the next day. Instead, he almost gets blown up with a train car under the Houses of Parliament. Not a great day. Afterwards, he calls Mary even though he doesn’t know what to say, but it turns out he doesn’t have to say anything. She tells him to stay with Sherlock for the night. She says she’s got to work late anyway, and Sherlock’s probably a bit shaken, even if he doesn’t show it, so it’s good that he and John have each other. John looks at Sherlock who’s trying to stop a cab and doesn’t look at all shaken, just terribly pleased with himself. He wonders if Mary realises that. She might. Maybe she knows it’s John who wants to stay at Sherlock’s tonight. Sometimes John has a feeling that Mary’s making things simpler for him, and what does that say about him, really, that the two most important people in his life are both so… so clever he could never catch up.  
  
He clears his throat, tells Mary he loves her and hangs up. Sherlock has managed to stop a cab.  
  
“I’m coming with you,” John says.  
  
Sherlock glances at him but doesn’t say anything. They stop at a Vietnamese restaurant on the way home. John doesn’t know the place. Sherlock orders for him and he wonders if he ought to text Mary, but he doesn’t know what he could say. _I love you. Sometimes I think you’re too good for me. Sometimes I don’t know who I am. Sometimes I think I stopped being myself when he died, and I never realised that until…_  
  
“Let’s go,” Sherlock says and puts the food boxes in his hands. He tries to give one back to Sherlock, no reason for him to carry them both, really, but Sherlock’s too fast for him. He keeps the boxes. They get into another cab which takes them home, and there he follows Sherlock upstairs, feeling like he’s living his own life for the first time in ages. This is how it’s supposed to be. He gets the forks, Sherlock hangs his coat, he leaves the forks and the food on the sofa table and goes to the toilet to take a piss, Sherlock talks to him through the closed door and doesn’t seem to notice he doesn’t answer. He comes back and finds Sherlock sitting in the sofa, eating. He sits down in his own armchair.  
  
But he can’t sleep in his bedroom. It’s not his bedroom anymore. He says this to Sherlock when it’s late and Sherlock has just said that there’re clean sheets in his bed.  
  
“Of course it’s your bedroom,” Sherlock answers. He looks like he’s ready to fight about it. John swallows. What a great idea, to wrestle on the floor about whether John’s bedroom is still John’s bedroom. Especially when Sherlock’s probably still covered in bruises.  
  
“No, it’s not,” John says. “I live with Mary.”  
  
“I know you live with _Mary_ ,” Sherlock says, his eyes sharp. “But it’s still _your bedroom._ ”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“And whose bedroom is it, then?”  
  
John swallows. “Yours.”  
  
“ _Mine?_ ”  
  
“It’s your other bedroom.”  
  
“My other bedroom?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“That’s bullshit.”  
  
“I’m not living here anymore!”  
  
“I’m not asking you to!”  
  
John opens his mouth and then closes it again. They’re both standing. He doesn’t remember why. He was about to go to sleep. On the sofa. It’s fine. It’s where he slept last night, too. He looks at Sherlock and pulls his shoulders back. “Of course. That’s –“  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. He sounds uncertain. “I didn’t mean that. I just… I know you aren’t going to move back in.”  
  
John swallows. “No. Yeah.”  
  
“Because you have Mary,” Sherlock says slowly, as if it’s difficult. “And you can’t live with me when you have Mary.”  
  
“No,” John says and then pauses. “Well. I suppose it’d be _possible_ , but I don’t… I don’t see why I’d…”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I understand. You have no reason to move back here. I… are you sure you wouldn’t rather go home tonight?”  
  
John bites his lip. Sherlock’s right. He should go home. He’s a fucking idiot. “No, I’m going to stay here. On the sofa.”  
  
Sherlock watches him like he’s evidence.  
  
“Just for tonight.”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“But I think…” John begins and clears his throat. God, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. “I think we should check your injuries. In case you… in case you hurt yourself today, or…”  
  
“I didn’t,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Okay. So, the bruises, are they… healing well?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long time. He thinks about Mary, Mary in their bed at home, naked, lying on her stomach, maybe reading a book, absolutely beautiful, and he doesn’t understand how it’s possible that a woman like that loves him, not at all, it’s a goddamn miracle. It’s a miracle. The best thing that could have happened to him, except, of course, Sherlock coming back from death.  
  
“You can check them, if you like,” Sherlock says. “My injuries. You’re the doctor, after all.”  
  
John nods. “Yeah. Okay.” But Sherlock just stands there, unmoving, so finally John clears his throat and looks away. “Get your clothes off and sit on the kitchen table.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
He wakes up when Sherlock is moving in the kitchen. He keeps his eyes closed for another second, breathes in and out, tells himself where he is and with whom. No reason to make Sherlock think he had a nightmare or something. Absolutely no reason at all. Sherlock doesn’t need to know that a second before John woke up, he was standing there on the street, looking up at Sherlock on the rooftop. _Goodbye, John_ , Sherlock said, and touched him, even though he doesn’t know how, because he was on the ground and Sherlock was already dead. But it was Sherlock, Sherlock’s hand on the back of his neck, almost like a threat. He would know Sherlock’s hand anywhere. Even in a dream.  
  
Sherlock walks closer to him and rests a hand on his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open and Sherlock pulls his hand away.  
  
“Afghanistan again?” Sherlock asks. He’s wearing the bathrobe but nothing under it, except boxers. That’s good. He’s actually been to bed, then.  
  
John shakes his head and then clears his throat. He fucking hopes he’s not going to sound like he feels. “It’s nothing. You can go back to sleep.”  
  
“It’s not nothing,” Sherlock says, looking down at him. He can’t see much in the dark but he sees that Sherlock’s worried.  
  
“Just a nightmare.”  
  
“But not about Afghanistan?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“…the bomb?”  
  
It takes John a few seconds to realise what Sherlock’s talking about. “Under the House of Parliament? No. No, it was…” He shouldn’t say. “You. You died.”  
  
“I’m right here, John,” Sherlock says. Sometimes he does an excellent job at playing an idiot.  
  
“No. My nightmare.”  
  
Sherlock looks at him for a long time. He wants to take everything back. God, he wants to put on his clothes and go to his and Mary’s place. No one makes him explain his nightmares there. Mary asked about them once or twice, a long time ago. Then she realised John wouldn’t talk.  
  
“I’m not dead, John,” Sherlock says. Still playing an idiot, then. John almost snaps at him for pointing out the obvious, but before he can do that, Sherlock sits on the edge of the sofa. John shifts. There’s no space for this, no space for Sherlock to sit while John is lying here. But he can’t say that out loud, because Sherlock finds his hand under the blanket, grabs it and presses his fingers against his own wrist. “See? Evidence.”  
  
John swallows and swallows again. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse beating against his fingertips. Sherlock is pressing harder than necessary.  
  
“Stop that.”  
  
“I’m here,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Piss off,” John says, “I was sleeping.” He tries to shove Sherlock off the sofa, but Sherlock doesn’t let go of his hand. He turns onto his side and tries to push Sherlock away with his free hand, and Sherlock catches it too. John sits up, pushes again – _shit_ , he’s breathing too hard, he’s _trying_ too hard, he should stop – he pushes at Sherlock again and again until finally he manages to get Sherlock out of the sofa, only Sherlock pulls John with him. “What’re you doing?” John asks, panting now. He tries to kick Sherlock in the leg but Sherlock jumps away from him and hits the sofa table. Empty cups shake and clatter.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asks and walks over the sofa table, so John has to do that, too. He almost falls onto his face. God, he’s angry, he’s still angry at Sherlock for jumping from the fucking rooftop. He can’t forget when he always sees it happening in his dreams. And he’s angry at Sherlock for pretending they can go back to normal. They can’t.  
  
“I’m not doing anything,” he says to Sherlock and shoves at Sherlock’s chest with both hands. Sherlock hits his back against the doorway. “I was just living my fucking life, because you left me with it, you left me alone, Sherlock, you just… you just _jumped_ , and we buried you, and I was there, I was _there_ –“  
  
“I was trying to protect you,” Sherlock says, looking down at him.  
  
He punches Sherlock in the stomach. Not hard. Just enough that Sherlock feels it. He’s a doctor, he can tell the difference. Sherlock lets out a sigh as if he’s tired and John hits him again. He’s got no fucking right to be _tired_. They aren’t done dealing with this shit yet.  
  
“I didn’t ask for that,” he tells Sherlock and pushes the man until Sherlock’s back is pressed against the edge of the kitchen table. Just last night, John had Sherlock sitting on it, half-naked, with all his bruises that are healing faster than John can deal with.  
  
“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says in a low impatient voice, as if John’s being unreasonable.  
  
John slaps him in the face.  
  
Sherlock swallows.  
  
“Sorry,” John says.  
  
“No,” Sherlock says, blinking at him, “I liked it. Do it again.”  
  
Oh, _bloody fucking…_ “You didn’t _like_ it, Sherlock, that’s fucking bullshit, what’re you playing at?“  
  
“ _I liked it_ ,” Sherlock says at him, “I liked it, and I bet you don’t have the guts to do it again –“  
  
He does it again. The impact throws Sherlock’s head to the side. He stares and tries to breathe. The kitchen is dark, but he can see that Sherlock’s not looking at him now, no, Sherlock’s looking at the floor, or maybe John’s hands. His hair is a mess and he’s breathing deliberately slowly. John knows him. John can tell. John has seen him in every situation, at his best, at his worst, and lying on the pavement with his eyes empty and blood everywhere -  
  
Slowly, he lets go of Sherlock. His hands are shaking. He takes Sherlock’s head in between his hand, turns it to the side, then another. He says he’s sorry, swears too, can’t seem to stop. But the rest of it stays stuck in his mouth. He doesn’t say he didn’t mean it. He brushes his thumbs against Sherlock’s cheeks, checks that nothing’s broken, but of course nothing’s broken, he didn’t hit that hard, he didn’t want to hurt Sherlock, he just… he just needs Sherlock to fucking _listen_ , even though he doesn’t know what he’s saying.  
  
Sherlock’s listening to him now. He can tell.  
  
“Sorry,” he says once more.  
  
“I meant it,” Sherlock says. He’s talking so quietly John almost can’t hear. His breathing feels warm against the insides of John’s wrists.  
  
“No, you didn’t,” John says.  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
“You didn’t mean it. You didn’t like… that.”  
  
“Today,” Sherlock says, “when you asked me about my injuries… I told you they’re healing alright.”  
  
John squeezes his mouth shut.  
  
“You asked me to take my clothes off anyway. On the kitchen table.”  
  
“I didn’t ask you to –“  
  
“Yes, you did.”  
  
Yeah, he had asked Sherlock to take his clothes off. And then he had waited, looking at anything but Sherlock, thinking about anything but Sherlock, until he hadn’t been able anymore.  
  
He clears his throat. “Then why did you…”  
  
“John,” Sherlock says, sounding impossibly tired, “you can… you can touch me. It’s alright. You can…”  
  
“It’s not alright.”  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
_Fuck._ “You don’t _care_ –“  
  
“I mean,” Sherlock says and licks his lower lip. It’s for the show. It has to be. “I mean that I like it. Anything. Just…”  
  
John takes a deep breath and pushes his hand into Sherlock’s hair. It’s a mistake. His fingers get stuck. “Anything?”  
  
Sherlock swallows visibly. “Anything.”  
  
“You fucking idiot,” John says, trying to disentangle his fingers from Sherlock’s hair. This is absurd. He’s pressing his left palm lightly against Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb not far from Sherlock’s mouth. He takes a step closer. Sherlock climbs onto the kitchen table in one unfairly smooth-looking move and opens his knees. “You don’t mean that,” John says, “you don’t mean any of it, and I don’t know why you’re talking like that, maybe you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re saying to me, or maybe you’re just playing –“  
  
“I’m not playing.”  
  
John shifts closer. They’re almost of the same height now when he’s standing and Sherlock’s sitting on the table. Sherlock’s still taller, but just a little. It barely counts. “What the fuck do you mean, you aren’t playing?”  
  
“Just hit me,” Sherlock says, “anything.”  
  
“You want me to hit you.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That’s bullshit, Sherlock,” John says, running his thumbs over Sherlock’s eyebrows. Sherlock closes his eyes. He looks like he would let John do anything, probably wouldn’t even fight back, the idiot. “Why?”  
  
Sherlock shakes his head.  
  
“You were gone for two years, and now you suddenly want people to hit you in the face?”  
  
“Not _people_ ,” Sherlock says. “You.”  
  
It makes sense. It shouldn’t. “I only had you,” John says. “You and me. Nobody else. And then you died on me.”  
  
“I didn’t die,” Sherlock says. It’s barely more than a whisper.  
  
“I don’t need you anymore,” John lies. “I’ve got Mary.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him.  
  
“…anything?”  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
“What if I… you still trust me that much?”  
  
Sherlock nods again.  
  
“I had a dream,” John says, holding Sherlock’s face as gently as he can. “I saw you jumping off that roof again, and I was down there, on the street. I saw you fall. And then you touched me.”  
  
Sherlock swallows. “What did I –“  
  
“The back of my neck. It was… not very nice.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“It wasn’t really you,” John says and takes a deep breath. “It was me. My dream. Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes are on him, as if he’s the only thing in the world. He wonders vaguely for how long he could have Sherlock’s attention like this. Five minutes? Ten minutes? What if he hit Sherlock in the face again? Would he have Sherlock’s attention for longer?  
  
He clears his throat. “You’d let me do anything to you, only because you don’t want me to leave.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says. His voice is steady. He looks like he’s waiting for a punch in the face.  
  
John lets go of him. “Go to sleep.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“You can be happy, you know,” Mary says the next day, when they’re brushing their teeth. “You’re allowed.”  
  
“I know,” he says and knows without looking that she’s not buying it. It’s a goddamn mystery, really, why everyone he falls for is some kind of a genius. Maybe it’s his type.  
  
But the more urgent mystery is what the hell he’s going to do next. This morning, he woke up on the sofa when Sherlock was already awake, drinking tea in the kitchen. Sherlock told him there was a cup of tea for him, too. He took it. It was cold. He drank it anyway. Sherlock was reading the newspaper but answered to him when he tried to make conversation about the weather. Then he left. The whole day, he’s been telling himself that it was just some kind of a… well, obviously neither of them is in their right mind at the moment. Sherlock has been away for two years and John’s just generally a fucking mess of a person. And it happened in the middle of the night. Nothing that happens in the middle of the night really matters.  
  
But then again, he held Sherlock’s face between his hands, and Sherlock said _anything._  
  
And he hit Sherlock in the face. For no reason at all. Just because he was angry and hurt.  
  
Oh, god, he doesn’t know how he can ever go back to 221B.  
  
“You’re going to go back to him anyway,” Mary says, watching him through the mirror.  
  
He clears his throat. “What?”  
  
“I get that it’s odd, having him back after all that time,” Mary says, spits the rest of the toothpaste in the sink and rinses her mouth. “It’s going to get better.” Then she leans in and kisses him, brushes his toothpaste off her lips and goes to the bedroom. He stays in the bathroom, looking himself in the mirror.  
  
“But we can’t go back,” he says later, when he follows Mary to the bedroom. Mary’s already in bed, reading a book. “I used to live with him. We… I really had nothing else. Just him. And now I’ve got you.”  
  
“You’ll figure it out.”  
  
He shakes his head.  
  
“Come on,” Mary says in a voice that suggests he’s being a bit slow. He knows that tone. “You got him back. Don’t give up because it’s a mess.”  
  
He takes a deep breath. God, if Mary only knew what he… well, he didn’t _do_ anything, he just touched Sherlock’s face, and… slapped Sherlock. That’s not… he didn’t… that’s not cheating, but still…  
  
“John,” Mary says and makes space for him in the bed. “Smile a little. You’d be prettier if you smiled.”  
  
He barks a laugh. “Piss off.”  
  
“That’s better,” Mary says and waits as he climbs onto the bed. He really loves her. But… “I hope you realise that I’m not jealous.”  
  
“Well,” he says, “maybe you should be.”  
  
Mary touches his hair. “I know. But I’m not. Not yet.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
There’s another case. Sherlock texts him and asks if he wants to come. With a question mark. He stares at the text for a few seconds and then takes his coat. The crime scene is on the rooftop of a parking hall, it’s windy and raining and an umbrella doesn’t help, and everyone looks cranky and wet already. He walks to Sherlock. Sherlock glances at him and says hi, then glances at him again and says _sex._  
  
He blinks. “ _What?_ ”  
  
It takes Sherlock at least two seconds to recover. That’s far too long for his standards. No wonder he looks terrified. “The victim. He’s had… clearly he’s had… at some point. Not recently. It’s not important. Look at his feet.”  
  
John looks at the victim’s feet, thinking about sex. But Sherlock starts talking about the weapon and about the folds in the victim’s shirt, and Lestrade comes closer and tries to do both small talk and find out what Sherlock is thinking, and the wind gets worse and the rain gets heavier, and five hours later John shares a cab with Sherlock and remembers what Sherlock said at the parking hall.  
  
“What did you mean?”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asks, not looking at him. Sherlock already gave the cabbie their address. 221B Baker Street. John could just let Sherlock get out there and tell the cabbie to take him to Mary’s.  
  
He clears his throat. “You said _sex._ When you saw me. That’s…”  
  
At least Sherlock glances at him now. He doesn’t quite like the look on Sherlock’s face, but then again, he’s probably looking pretty nervous himself.  
  
“A bit unconventional as a greeting, don’t you think,” he adds.  
  
Sherlock smiles just a little. John smiles back. “Sex,” Sherlock says slowly, as if he’s reading it in the paper. “Twice. In the evening and in the morning, I suppose.”  
  
“You _suppose_ I couldn’t get it up twice at the same night,” John says.  
  
“ _Get it up_ ,” Sherlock says. His tone suggests John is being ridiculous. The look on his face suggests otherwise.  
  
“So,” John says and pats his knees, “you read it in my… what, my face that I had had sex with my girlfriend? I’m not really surprised, it’s just… you didn’t use to be so frank about it. And in front of Lestrade’s squad.”  
  
Sherlock looks away. “Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not angry.”  
  
“Of course you are.”  
  
John closes his eyes. They’re almost at home. A few more blocks. “Do we have anything to eat?”  
  
Sherlock is quiet for a few seconds. John can hear his breathing. “Mrs. Hudson got me something. She says she’s worried I’ll starve now that you aren’t…”  
  
John swallows.  
  
“…living with me anymore.”  
  
“So, you’ve got food.”  
  
“I can make you something,” Sherlock says.  
  
John opens his eyes. “But you can’t cook.”  
  
“Or we could go to restaurant.”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” he says quickly. “You can make me something. That’s great. Thank you.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
It turns out what Sherlock can do is that he can keep pasta in the kettle until it’s too soft and heat canned tomato sauce in the microwave. But when he puts the pasta and the tomato sauce onto the place, he looks proud and smug and like he’s trying not to, and John says thank you, sits at the table and eats everything. It’s not bad. Mrs. Hudson knows what she’s doing, picking tomato sauce.  
  
John says he can make tea, but Sherlock is already making it. So, he goes to the living room and waits as Sherlock paces around in the kitchen, still wearing his whole armour, including the coat. Maybe he doesn’t realise what he looks like or maybe he realises perfectly. The coat flaps around his knees as he turns to take the kettle off the stove, and then again when he reaches to take the lemon tea box from the cupboard. He only brings the tea to John when it’s ready.  
  
“Thanks,” John says. “You don’t have to court me, you know.”  
  
Sherlock snorts. “I’m not…” Then he stops and sips his tea. “Of course I do.”  
  
John clears his throat. “It’s not a competition, between you and –“  
  
“Of course it is,” Sherlock says, puts the cup of tea on the sofa table, hangs his coat and sits down, only he can’t even sit like ordinary people, no, he leaves one foot on the floor and places another on the sofa, so that it looks like he’s a goddamn nude model posing for John. Except, of course, that he’s not naked, no, he’s wearing his bloody _suit._ “I want you to be here,” Sherlock says, his eyes on John. “She wants you to be there. So, a competition.”  
  
“You aren’t going to win,” John says, but his voice comes out thin.  
  
“I know.”  
  
_Oh, god._ “It’s really not a competition, Sherlock. And she doesn’t mind that I spend time with you. You’re my… best friend. She wants me to have friends. Like a… it’s good for the relationship, you know, that you don’t share _everything_.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock says. “But I believe you. She wants you to have friends.”  
  
John nods. “Exactly.”  
  
“I want you to stay here,” Sherlock says in a flat voice. “I want you to move back in and sleep in your bed so I can hear it if you’re having nightmares. And I can hear you waking up in the morning and getting out of the bed. I want you to be here. I want you to sit there in your armchair and drink tea and talk nonsense and complain about stupid things and watch idiotic programs on the television.”  
  
“…I don’t complain about stupid things,” John says. He feels stuck. Like a nail that got too close to a magnet.  
  
“I want things to go back like they were.”  
  
“You know that’s not possible. You –“  
  
“I didn’t _die_.”  
  
“You _left me_ ,” John says, taking a deep breath. He feels like he’s had this conversation a thousand times during this past week. And it doesn’t change. He’s still hearing it in his head. _Goodbye, John._  
  
“I couldn’t possibly have taken you with me,” Sherlock says slowly, his eyes on John.  
  
John looks away. “Yeah. Because I slow you down.”  
  
“Because I might’ve gotten you killed.”  
  
“I don’t care! I don’t care how dangerous it is, I just want to be with you, and it’s not only that, as you know, you fucking bastard, you let me think you were _dead_ –“ And there he stops. He’s said this before. They both know all this. He looks at Sherlock and Sherlock looks at him and nothing is moving, except that somewhere not far away there is a good woman who loves John and would never do what Sherlock did.  
  
“I’m going to go home for tonight,” John says, and Sherlock nods.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He doesn’t go home. They watch television. He’s not sure what they’re watching, but he can’t make himself change the channel, and Sherlock looks like he’s staring right through the television, so it doesn’t matter anyway. John feels as if he’s holding his breath. At some point he realises he is. He’s also trying not to go to the toilet even though he needs to piss, because what if him getting up from the armchair is going to break this, whatever this is, this heavy silence that keeps him and Sherlock in place. It’s late already, he should have left.  
  
“You need to urinate,” Sherlock says eventually, not looking at him. “Just go. I won’t touch your stupid remote control.”  
  
There’s so much that’s wrong in that sentence that John doesn’t say anything, only goes to the toilet. When he comes back, the television is still on but Sherlock’s standing in front of it.  
  
“Maybe it’s time for me to…” John begins, pauses, takes a deep breath and tells himself he’s an idiot. “Sit back. We’re going to watch one more… episode. Of… whatever.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him but sits down on the sofa again. John sits next to him this time. It’s crazy. He’s crazy. He can’t figure out what the show is about. He keeps his eyes on the television for as long as he can, but he can see from the corner of his eye that Sherlock keeps shifting on the sofa, like he’s got ants in his pants, and John almost laughs at that, and then bites his lip too hard.  
  
“You remember what you said to me?” he asks, not looking at Sherlock. He can see Sherlock turning to him. “On the rooftop? Before you…“  
  
“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock says.  
  
John closes his eyes, then opens them again, then picks up the remote control and turns off the television. Then he turns to Sherlock.  
  
“Just tell me to piss off,” he says.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything.  
  
John raises his hands and opens Sherlock’s top button. It’s ridiculous, to wear a dress shirt at home. And it looks like it’s been ironed. Of course it’s been ironed. Sherlock would never use a wrinkled shirt. Sherlock would never…  
  
“My bruises again?” Sherlock asks. He’s breathing too fast.  
  
“Yeah,” John says and opens another button, and then another. He pushes the suit jacket from Sherlock’s shoulders and watches as Sherlock shrugs it off and carefully places on the back of the sofa. Then he gets back to opening Sherlock’s buttons. There’re so many. He could easily stop. He still has time to stop. He still has time to realise what he’s doing and stop it, because it’s got nothing to do with Sherlock’s bruises, and everything to do with… with…  
  
Sherlock draws in a sharp breath as John tugs the hem of his shirt free.  
  
“Sorry,” John says and helps Sherlock to get the shirt off.  
  
“Kitchen?” Sherlock asks, looking at John as if he thinks he can read the answer on John’s face. Maybe he can. “Or bedroom?”  
  
John swallows. “We aren’t going to… I don’t think…”  
  
Sherlock looks down at John’s lap and then back again. He has to know what he’s doing. There’s absolutely no way that he’d manage to look so… as if he’s going to tug John’s trousers down and… it has to be calculated. It has to be an act. Sherlock can’t _mean_ it.  
  
“I mean it,” Sherlock says. “Kitchen or bedroom?”  
  
“Don’t look at me like that,” John says.  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Like you…” _Fuck._ He can’t say it. It’s ridiculous. “You don’t even like sex.”  
  
“We haven’t tried it yet.”  
  
“… _we haven’t tried it yet?”  
_  
“Yes.”  
  
“…you would try it with me?”  
  
“This can’t be news to you, John.”  
  
“Of course it’s _news_ ,” John says.  
  
It’s not news.  
  
Of course it’s news. He never knew Sherlock -  
  
No, he didn’t _want_ to know. There’s a difference, isn’t there?  
  
No, but he was just guessing. Those were just guesses. Sometimes he thought that maybe their friendship… he kept calling it a _friendship_ but the word never fit. And he always thought that Sherlock was… well, Sherlock is gay, isn’t he, must be, or _gay_ in a sense that if Sherlock ever considered having a relationship of some sort with another human being, surely that would be with a man. But Sherlock wouldn’t. Sherlock had John, _has_ John, and that was enough for Sherlock, and it had to be enough for John, and besides, _John_ is not gay -  
  
“You always knew I’m gay,” Sherlock says, sitting there on the sofa with no shirt on. John hopes he doesn’t get cold. “And you know you matter to me more than anyone else.”  
  
“Yeah,” John says, “but that doesn’t mean…”  
  
“Not necessarily. But…” Sherlock bites his lip. “As I said, we haven’t tried it yet.”  
  
“You didn’t want it,” John says. “You didn’t want sex with me. Before.”  
  
“Of course I wanted sex with you.”  
  
“You –“  
  
“I just didn’t want to change anything. In case I’d ruin it.”  
  
“…you wanted sex with –“  
  
“I can live without,” Sherlock says. “It’s perfectly fine. But I can’t live without you.”  
  
_Of course it’s a competition_ , says the Sherlock in John’s head, and then, _goodbye, John._  
  
“I hope you’re never going to know,” John says, “what it’s like, trying to live without you.” He breathes in. “I mean, without me. Sherlock, we aren’t going to –“  
  
Sherlock presses the flat of his palm against John’s crotch. John looks down and back up again. It’s absurd. It’s like the worst fucking move in the book, and it’s working. He’s half-hard already and it’s not helping that Sherlock is stroking his erection through the layers of fabric, looking curious and intent like John’s a serial killer and his dick is the missing piece of the puzzle.  
  
“Bedroom,” John says. “Bedroom. But we aren’t going to…”  
  
They are going to. He knows it and he supposes Sherlock knows it. He goes to take a piss first. His hands are shaking. It takes ages and Sherlock gives him comments through the door, about how challenging it is to urinate with an erection, and he tells Sherlock to piss off and doesn’t think about why this is working for him. He tries not to think about anything. He drinks two glasses of water while Sherlock is in the toilet, gets angry at himself for drinking two glasses of water because he’s going to have to piss again soon, and then forgets about it when Sherlock comes out, still not wearing a shirt, of course not, John took it off. He took Sherlock’s shirt off. Just like that. And Sherlock let him. Because Sherlock lets him do anything, everything. And likewise. He’d let Sherlock do everything to him, too. He already has. He let Sherlock have his heart and then rip it to pieces and now he’s here for more, apparently. With his heart still broken, no matter how much he’s tried to glue it back together during these past one and a half years with -  
  
“John,” Sherlock says from the bedroom door, “did you change your mind?”  
  
John shakes his head. He follows Sherlock to the bedroom, to Sherlock’s bedroom, where he’s always felt like a stranger. Now he sits down on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, his hands trembling like he’s seventeen again and this is his first time of having sex -  
  
“You’re flushed,” Sherlock says, stopping in front of him and looking down.  
  
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” But it’s not nothing. He’s going to have sex with Sherlock Holmes. With a man. With Sherlock. And he didn’t… well, of course he wanted this, he’s wanted this for… for a long time, probably, but there was no point to think about it, not when Sherlock was dead. He tried to forget about it. He supposes he might’ve been able to forget, eventually. Then finally he would’ve believed that they had been just friends.  
  
Well, now he’s never going to believe that. Sherlock puts something in his hand. It’s lube and it looks expensive. He puts it on the mattress. They aren’t going to need _lube._  
  
“Anal sex,” Sherlock says. He sounds like he’s read it in a book. “Obviously, you aren’t going to want to be at the receiving end, so that’ll be me. What do you think of kissing?”  
  
John opens his mouth and closes it.  
  
“Kissing,” Sherlock says again, looking more impatient now. Also nervous. And hopeful. “I believe you’re familiar with the concept. What do you think? Do you want to skip it?”  
  
“I…” John rubs his nose. _Bloody fucking hell._ He stands up. Sherlock blinks at him. He takes Sherlock’s face between his hands. It’s nothing new. _This_ is barely new. He brushes his thumbs against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock opens it a little, looking like he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s never kissed anyone before. But John doubts that. Of course he has. But maybe it hasn’t meant anything, not until now, because this is John, and this is Sherlock, and they were always meant to be together. From the first day. From the dinner at Angelo’s and the awful moment when he thought Sherlock would take the pill. John was already falling in love. He just didn’t realise it.  
  
He kisses Sherlock. Sherlock stays frozen for a few seconds and then kisses him back. Maybe Sherlock’s read about kissing, too. He’s doing it as if he wants to win an award. Or maybe he’s been watching porn. Oh, _shit_ , John can’t definitely think about Sherlock watching porn, because then he’s going to start laughing, and Sherlock’s going to get offended, but now he’s already laughing and Sherlock’s offended and the kissing stops, and he didn’t want that, he just…  
  
“Am I doing it wrong?” Sherlock asks.  
  
“No,” John says, “no, not at all, I just… I’m sorry.”  
  
Sherlock still looks like John has just stepped on a puppy or something. John kisses him again.  
  
_Anal sex_ , John thinks when Sherlock fumbles with the zipper of his trousers. He lets Sherlock do it. To open the zipper, that is. Not to talk him into having anal sex. They don’t have to. This is just their first…  
  
This might be the only time, too.  
  
He kisses Sherlock again and then has to pull back when Sherlock pushes a hand into his pants and grabs his dick.  
  
“Interesting,” Sherlock says, and John wants to punch the bastard in the face but can’t at the moment. Instead, he tries to get rid of Sherlock’s trousers, but he’s lacking both coordination and oxygen at the moment, so it’s difficult. Sherlock is handling his dick carefully as if he’s worried about breaking it, but it’s almost too much anyway, which is a bit embarrassing, because John’s not a kid anymore, he’s had sex before, he can keep himself in check long enough to -  
  
“Hey,” he says and touches Sherlock’s face. “Do you really want to try it?”  
  
Sherlock nods, doesn’t even ask what, the bastard. Maybe it’s so obvious what John is thinking.  
  
“I haven’t…” John breathes in. “I haven’t done any of that, actually. But I think I can understand the… basic principle.”  
  
“You’re a doctor,” Sherlock says.  
  
“Yeah”, John says, “yeah, I’m a doctor.” He’s a doctor. He takes Sherlock’s trousers off and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Sherlock’s posh boxers to not poke Sherlock’s dick with the waistband when he tucks the boxers down. He’s seen Sherlock naked before. Once or twice. And he’s a bloody doctor, for fuck’s sake, he knows what a cock looks likes. He stares anyway. But Sherlock’s staring at him as well. At least they’re even. They’re both idiots now.  
  
They kiss in the bed until they’re both naked and Sherlock is saying some nonsense about the lube and some video he’s watched and instructions and how many fingers he has managed to fit inside himself, and John can’t take it anymore. He pushes a pillow under Sherlock’s arse, makes sure there’s enough lube and pushes his finger gently in. For the tiniest moment he thinks he forgot his gloves. Then he remembers this is sex.  
  
“Alright?” he asks Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock nods, but he’s looking at John with wide eyes and open mouth, his face blushed all the way down to his neck.  
  
“Don’t worry,” John says. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, but at least Sherlock is listening for fucking once. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
“I’m not _worried_.”  
  
“We’re going to take this slow.”  
  
“John, you don’t have to –“  
  
“You’re doing great,” he says, moving his finger back and forth. It takes him a moment to find Sherlock’s prostate, but it’s obvious when he does. Sherlock almost kicks him in the face. “Shh,” he says and grabs Sherlock’s knee with his free hand. Sherlock looks like he wants to murder John. But in a good way. “You’re alright. This’ll take just a moment. Just relax.”  
  
He sees Sherlock swallowing, then he gently brushes against Sherlock’s prostate again and Sherlock’s eyes flip close and open.  
  
“Just a little bit more,” he says. His heart is pounding in his throat. Sherlock is watching him with wide eyes. He bites his lip. “Not good? The doctor talk, I mean?”  
  
“No, it’s…” Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Keep going.”  
  
“Do I –“  
  
“Keep talking, too.”  
  
So, he talks. He should feel ridiculous. He does, but only partly. He tells Sherlock that Sherlock’s doing very well and that this is going to be over soon and it’s a normal reaction and there’s nothing to worry about and that his fingers might be a little cold but it won’t hurt, he’s going to make sure it doesn’t hurt, he’s a bloody doctor, isn’t he, he can do this. He’s going to take care of Sherlock. Like he always does. Sherlock doesn’t have to worry about anything.  
  
“I don’t have a condom,” John says, when he has three fingers pushed in and Sherlock looks like he’s going to either come or strangle John in the near future.  
  
“You don’t need a goddamn _condom_ ,” Sherlock says, sounding like an impatient bastard that he is. A very difficult patient, indeed. “I’m clean, John. They tested me. Thoroughly. And I know you are.”  
  
“You don’t know that.”  
  
“I hack your medical records regularly,” Sherlock says. He sounds smug, but just for a second, because then John crooks his fingers.  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock says, his eyes closed now, “yes, just… put your penis. In me.”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d be into dirty talk.”  
  
“Don’t mock me.” Sherlock takes a sharp breath when John pulls his fingers out. “I can try again. John, would you be so kind and fuck me already?”  
  
John takes the lube. His hands aren’t exactly steady.  
  
“Fuck me,” Sherlock says, looking at him from under half-closed eyelids. “Fuck me, John Watson. Fuck me in the arse. Fuck –“  
  
“Alright,” John says, “that’s enough. I get it. You can say _fuck._ ”  
  
“I know other words, too,” Sherlock says. “I read –“ And then he goes quiet. John settles between his thighs, makes sure that the pillow is still in place, gives his own cock a few tugs he doesn’t particularly need, and places the tip against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock is panting now. John might be panting too.  
  
“Are you sure?” he asks Sherlock.  
  
“Just put your damn penis –,” Sherlock begins, and John pushes his damn penis inside him, because else he’s going to laugh, and that’s not going to help, not at all. He’s not laughing now. He stops and pulls back and pushes a little further, and Sherlock obviously tries to relax but can’t figure out how, and he never knew he wanted this, only of course he did. Of _course_ he did. He places kisses on Sherlock’s chest even though the angle is awkward and he almost slips out of Sherlock’s arse while he’s at it. Then he takes Sherlock’s dick in his hand, doesn’t even _do_ anything, but Sherlock’s looking at him as if he’s the best thing in the whole fucking world.  
  
“Alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock says, “just…”  
  
John pulls all the way back and then pushes back in.  
  
He fucks Sherlock against the mattress until he can’t take it anymore. He says to Sherlock that he’s going to come, and Sherlock grabs his arse with left hand, keeps him in place and covers his hand with his own, so that they can finish Sherlock together while John is still buried inside him. It takes him just a few pushes after that. He comes inside Sherlock and then lies down on Sherlock until his dick has gone soft and Sherlock starts wriggling under him. Not so much of a doctor now, he thinks and pulls his dick out. Sherlock flinches.  
  
He settles on the bed next to Sherlock and kisses first Sherlock’s throat and then his mouth.  
  
He’s not going to start thinking about Mary now. A little later. In half an hour. But not now. He kisses Sherlock again. For a little while, he’s going to stay here with Sherlock, who would let him do anything. He owes Sherlock that after he just…  
  
He can feel guilty later.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He wakes up in the middle of the night, climbs out of Sherlock’s bed and goes to the kitchen. After five minutes, Sherlock follows him. Sherlock puts the kettle on, he doesn’t argue.  
  
“Sorry,” Sherlock says, while they’re sitting in the silence, waiting for the water to boil.  
  
“No,” John says, “don’t. I cheated on her, not you.”  
  
“You weren’t thinking –“  
  
“Of course I was thinking, I’m not _stupid._ ”  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock says. He’s smiling a little but looks sad anyway.  
  
  
**  
  
  
John sees Mary at work. It’s terrible. He takes a shower in the locker room and puts on clean clothes Mary brought from home this morning. When he walks past Mary’s desk, Mary smiles at him and asks how he slept. He says he slept well. He thinks Mary can read everything on his face. It’s only fair. He says he’s ready for the first patient and Mary smiles at him again.  
  
This isn’t the first time he’s cheated on someone, but he doesn’t remember feeling like there’re two guns pointed at his head.  
  
Mary leaves work before him. He goes to kiss her in the doorway and she says she’s going to fetch takeaway. Chinese or Vietnamese, she asks. He can’t say. She looks sad and then goes. He has two more patient: a flu, and another flu.  
  
When he gets home, the food is on the kitchen table and Mary is gone.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Sherlock comes two days later. John has a day off. He couldn’t get it fixed, not even though he asked the new receptionist if he could come to work anyway, maybe they need him, maybe someone’s sick, maybe someone’s kid is sick today, or maybe there’s paper work… The receptionist, a twenty-something girl who doesn’t resemble Mary at all, told him with a cheerful tone to stay at home. Well, everyone at work probably knows already. People just hear things like these somehow. Gossip.  
  
“You aren’t answering my texts,” Sherlock says, standing in the living room. “And you didn’t open the door.”  
  
“I knew you could pick the lock.”  
  
“I rang the doorbell four times.”  
  
“I was busy,” John says, staring at the television. He’s seen this episode of _Heartbeat_ before, but a classic is a classic.  
  
“Is she coming back?”  
  
John bites his lip. “No.”  
  
“How do you know?”  
  
“She left me a note.” He takes a deep breath. “And called me. Yesterday. I always thought breaking up over the phone was a shitty thing to do.”  
  
“You broke up with her.”  
  
“…kind of.” Mary didn’t give him much of a choice. He’s grateful and it’s making him feel even worse than he already did. And Mary didn’t make him say it, either, no, she asked and all he had to do was to say yes.  
  
“She broke up with you, then.”  
  
“I don’t know which way it was. Technically. It doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s my fault.”  
  
Sherlock is staring at him. The silence drags on. He puts up the volume on the television. There’s another puzzling crime in Aidensfield.  
  
“Do you want her back?” Sherlock asks.  
  
John shakes his head.  
  
“…why didn’t you tell me, then?”  
  
“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation,” he says. Fuck _Heartbeat._ He turns off the television and looks at Sherlock. “I loved her, you know. I _love_ her. But it just wasn’t enough now that you’re back. And then I did what shitty men do and cheated on her with you. And she knew it without me saying a word and left me so I don’t need to choose, because she knew what my choice was. And I don’t even know what for –“  
  
“You can have me,” Sherlock says.  
  
John shakes his head. “I don’t know if you want a relationship. I don’t know what kind of a relationship you want. I don’t know if you want to have sex. Maybe you just want _me_ , I mean… maybe you just want me to be there, to follow you to every fucking crime scene in London, to run after you while you sprint way with your ridiculously long legs or jump over fences or something. Maybe you just want me to write the blog so that you won’t have to start writing about tobacco ashes again. I don’t know what you _want._ ”  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock says, watching him. “You know what I want.”  
  
“And, really,” he says, wondering why he’s still talking and why he can’t stop, “if you tell me that you want me to kiss you, I’m not going to know if you mean it or not. You’re so clever. You made me think you were dead for two years. You could make me think you want me to fuck you when really you just want to keep your blogger.”  
  
“I don’t need a _blogger_ ,” Sherlock says, “my blog is _fine._ And you would know. You know me, John. You can tell if I’m lying.”  
  
“No, I can’t. When you died –“  
  
“When I died,” Sherlock says, “I called you from the rooftop. I said goodbye over the phone. I couldn’t have fooled you if you had been up there with me. Looking me in the eyes.”  
  
“You don’t believe that.”  
  
“ _You_ believe that. You believe you know me. And you’re right.”  
  
John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him. He clears his throat. He can’t possibly think about getting into a relationship with _Sherlock Holmes_ , but then again, he’s been in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes from the day that they met.  
  
He stands up. Sherlock stays absolutely still, as if waiting for a punch in the face, or a kiss.  
  
“What do you want?” John asks. “What do you want of me?”  
  
“Everything,” Sherlock says.


End file.
